


what will you do when I go to my grave?

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, But not quite, Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Healing, Hugs, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Spouses, Love Confessions, Major Character Injury, Other, POV Alternating, Queerplatonic Relationships, Some Humor, Swearing, They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trauma, an implied one like in canon, baby's first discorporation, demons can’t heal but angels can, work with me angel get in the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Whenever Crowley sat idle, or lay to sleep, he had a habit of running his fingers over the skin on the left of his stomach. He knew the outline of the space viscerally. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he could tell which flesh was infernal, and which was at least ethereal-adjacent, but it was still an obsessive thing, to trace the thin stretch of space that shouldn’t have been there. That should have been his corporeal end but wasn’t.His hand flew there now, as he watched the angel’s slack face, the wound oozing shiny blood.~In which characters almost discorporate, watch each other almost discorporate, vaguely acknowledge and mostly ignore their feelings, then get their shit together in the third act (in other words, they finally begin to heal).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Courts GO Re-Reads





	1. two thousand years

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is from “The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird,” a song from the book “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes" by Suzanne Collins.)  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: blood, a brief moment of violence (a punch), graphic descriptions of a knife wound, a traumatic head injury, and the dying process (but without the dying part). It’s seriously not pretty, so skip this if you can’t stomach that kind of thing. Last chapter gets into triggers, PTSD, and minor panic attacks.  
> Some fics come to me in an instant, keysmashed in an evening of intensity. Some fics come to me slowly, a few words at a time, in no rush to tell me their secrets. This fic was like that, the gentle unfolding of a bud’s petals…and a real pain in the ass when I had no guide but the angel and demon perched on my shoulders (and I think the demon was napping the whole time…). I hope you enjoy what came of it.

Everything was just fine. Really. His heart was still pumping, for one. Organs seemed not entirely dysfunctional. Unfunctional? However you say it. Point was, it could have been much, much worse.

Still a lot of fucking blood.

Crawly coughed, which turned into a choking, garbling sound as he lay in the dirt, gasping for air. His mouth was full of metallic liquid, dribbling thickly out of the corners of his lips and down the side of his face. Like being three sheets to the wind, but not nearly as fun. It reminded him a little bit of that time in Mesopotamia, with the ostrich-

He wheezed softly as a blast of chilly night air tugged on the frayed nerves of his exposed stomach. Okay, maybe not like that time at all. A knife to the belly altered the landscape of this evening a great deal. He hadn’t had a chance to look at it but could tell by the dampness under his cloak that it was probably not something he wanted to see, anyway.

He’d been doing so _well,_ too. It had been nearly two thousand rotations around the nearest star, and he’d travelled all over the planet. Performing temptations, doing his job. Well, _mostly_ doing his job. Not failing to do his job well enough for anyone Down There to do anything about it, anyway. Earth was full of so many fascinating things, and humans kept going off in all directions with their ridiculous ideas and dreams and inventions. Being vile, evil creatures, capable of the most stunning kindness and mercy.

He had avoided the part of the world touched by the Flood. Pegged out with the Australians (not that they were called that, yet), managing to mostly not think about it too much. It helped to see humans alive and kicking and getting on with their lives. Having work to focus on and distract him was a bonus, as was having work to fob off in favour of getting shit-faced somewhere or learning some human trade.

He hoped Earth was here to stay. Crawly had trouble believing that anything good – or anything he liked, at least – wouldn’t get torn from him, eventually. But, for now, things seemed to be chugging along, and he elected to focus on the now. Not the _was,_ and not the _will be._

Unfortunately, the _now_ was a bit disappointing.

Again, there was quite a lot of blood, and Crawly didn’t have a blessed clue what to do about it. He was a demon, was the thing. Healing was something _angels_ did, not demons. Wasn’t exactly the prerogative of a denizen of Hell, fixing things instead of breaking them. Demons and angels were from the same stock, sure, but Falling had stripped him of…a lot.

Including the ability to deal with a minor thing like a stab wound.

Crawly gave a low groan through clenched teeth. He couldn’t lay there any longer. He was dying – discorporating, anyway – and there was nothing he could do about it, but he was absolutely not about to do so while lying about like a dried-out starfish or something.

He sat up, and a scream wrenched from his throat, heat and spines of pain searing away at his very bones. Ssssatan, that _hurt!_ He fell back to the dirt with a grunt that sounded nothing at all like a whimper and closed his eyes, grimacing. There was going to be so much paperwork, and he’d be lucky to be reassigned to Earth anytime soon. If at all. Might be centuries before he could come back up. Spectacular. Great.

Maybe something could still be done. Clog the bleeding or whatever. But even as he moved a hand to touch his wound, and felt the slick and heat of it, the ragged, torn flesh, his stomach churned with nausea (how could it do that when it was the thing that was torn open?). This sucked enough already, and he didn’t need to go making it worse. He wasn’t sure if that was possible, but knowing himself, he’d manage it somehow. Could always find something nearby to worsen the wound so he’d die faster…not that he felt in a rush to leave, even with the pain.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by approaching footfall. “Oh my,” came a soft, horrified voice.

Crawly stiffened, which hurt, so forcibly relaxed, which hurt, and turned his head in the direction of the voice.

“Is – is that…?” A cough. “That is, what sort of…ploy is this, Crawly? A – a demonic trick to get me to come here and…erm…”

Crawly peeled open one eye to glare at the sandaled foot of the angel. _Aziraphale._ Of course they were here, in some random, small settlement in the middle of fucking nowhere. And of course, they would stumble across Crawly as they were bleeding out into the dirt and assume it was a trick. Of course. Typical.

“You got me,” Crawly groused back as nonchalantly as one could while steadily bleeding out from a chest wound. As though this was always how he spent his evenings _._ “Lying here to tempt humans into Envy with my obvious pleasure at this situation.”

Aziraphale made a choked sound. “And – and what is this situation, exactly?” they asked carefully.

Crawly shifted enough to open both eyes and glare up at the angel. Oh, bless them, they looked all concerned and confused, and their white clothes were too bright to look at straight on as their hands twisted the fabric over and over. “Having a nap,” Crawly replied, deadpan, because he was an asshole and not in the greatest of moods at the moment. “Seemed like a comfy place to sleep, out in the cold of night on the hard ground.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows twisted up. “You seem to have some sort of wound on your corporation, Crawly,” they pointed out.

Crawly grimaced, as though it simply being spoken of made the pain all the worse. Normally, they enjoyed the angel’s presence. Enjoying seeing them, teasing them, talking to them. More than enjoyed – he _cherished_ their interactions probably more than he should. But right now, all he could focus on was that ache, and the way the world seemed fuzzy around the edges…and the pain seemed to be receding a bit, didn’t it?

Was it getting darker?

#

When a child ran to their door insisting that they’d heard a scream out past the northern edge, saying something about “healers stop things from screaming, right?”, Aziraphale had by no means expected to find a demon lying on the ground in a pool of red, wheezing the most painful-sounding breaths.

Not just any demon, of course. It was Crawly, the only demon they knew by name, the one who talked to them on the Eastern Wall – not to mention a dozen other occasions in which the demon acted altogether too friendly and open, leaving Aziraphale more than a little flustered and confused.

Aziraphale had been trained rigorously on how to handle violent demons. On how to slay and smite and protect what needed protecting, like the guardian and solider they were built to be. However, they had never been taught that not all of them were, in fact, violent, nor what to do when the demon was an excellent conversationalist with bright, curious eyes.

Another thing they had never been taught was what to do when that demon teetered on the edge of discorporation.

Well, no. That wasn’t entirely true.

“Having a nap,” Crawly told them, in a voice like sand. He probably thought he sounded flippant, but the tension of his vocal cords was taut and pulled to the snapping point. “Seemed like a comfy place to sleep, out in the cold of night on the hard ground.”

That was illogical, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with it. Angels weren’t big on jokes and sarcasm, and Aziraphale still struggled to keep up with it, if they were honest. Besides, this was hardly the time for such foolishness – the demon was lying in a pool of blood! “You seem to have some sort of wound on your corporation, Crawly,” they said, unsure why he wasn’t acknowledging it. Trying to hide weakness?

Crawly’s face twisted into an expression Aziraphale didn’t understand. He suddenly took in a deep, wet-sounding breath, which was when Aziraphale realized he hadn’t in nearly ten, fifteen seconds. They didn’t need to breathe, being supernatural entities, but corporations tended to forget that when they could not do so easily.

“Crawly?” When no reply came, Aziraphale kneeled by his side, giving a fleeting thought to miracling away any grass or dirt stains later. The wound looked even worse from so close, and it no doubt felt very painful.

Aziraphale, as an angel, had taken to masquerading as a healer of sorts wherever they went. It made it easier, when someone was hurt, if the humans knew to go to them to ensure the swiftest recovery, as the child had earlier. They’d delivered babies, sealed wounds and rescued humans from the brink of Death countless times. It was important to them, to do this. Especially children. Especially in the past millennia or so. Especially since…certain developments that need not be revisited at this time.

Put simply, Aziraphale had seen many a wound in their time, including stab wounds, as this appeared to be. It was a rather straightforward and fresh laceration, though not at all clean. A knife appeared to have entered the flesh and twisted about, causing the red-and-black coated skin to look jagged and torn, spanning a palm’s width across the left side of the stomach.

Aziraphale rarely relied on human methods, often beings so primitive and doing more harm than good, but they pretended for the sake of the humans so their miracles wouldn’t be questioned. Of course, when healing themself of a wound, they didn’t bother and simply miracled it clean and gone, good as new.

So, in short, they had no idea why Crawly wasn’t healing himself.

“Crawly, what are you doing?” they asked again, in slightly different words this time.

The demon growled low in his throat, seemingly a subconscious reaction. “Honestly,” he said slowly, “I thought that was pretty fucking obvious.”

“Language,” they muttered, more habit than anything. “Well, it’s clear you’re wounded. I can see that. I’m not blind, Crawly.”

“Could’ve fooled me, ang-“ Crawly broke off to cough weakly, blood spilling out of their mouth.

Aziraphale made a face at the gruesome sight.

“Gah, ugh, _eugh,”_ he grunted, looking just as disgusted. “Just go off and do your miracles, angel,” he said in a strained voice. “I’m all good – _set_ , here.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I don’t understand-“

“Leave me alone.”

“Crawly. Why in the world aren’t you healing yourself?”

Crawly didn’t answer for a long moment, body falling still. Aziraphale wondered if he’d died and felt a strange pang strike through their gut. Sharp and visceral, a sensation of utter loss. Then Crawly spoke again, and it did not so much evaporate as loosen its grip, ready to tighten like the knot of a readied noose. “Can’t,” he muttered, impossibly quiet.

“You can’t?”

Crawly attempted a nod, enough to get the point across. “Demon,” he rasped.

Aziraphale furrowed their brow. They supposed it made sense. Demons were vile, vicious creatures, of course, so why would they be allowed the ability to heal anything? It was a rather angelic trait, after all, something She would likely not give to demons. Revitalizing and saving life, rather than ending it.

They thought of rushing waters, and reprimands for miracles of healing, and wondered, briefly, just how true that was. The unworthiness. Surging suddenly with guilt, they shoved the whole idea to the back of their mind with a shake of the head and forced themself to focus on what was right before them.

“I can’t leave you like this,” Aziraphale said softly, not entirely sure why.

Crawly managed a strangled sound in response, but no words formed.

Aziraphale watched the demon slowly die. Life eked out before their eyes. They ought to be glad, probably. Nothing could be done about the wound. Certainly, no human method could save Crawly, now, who lay pale with blood loss in the waning light, the lingering ray of sunset almost cruel across the jewelled surface. Crawly’s wet-sounding breaths, a gargling like drowning on air, came farther and farther apart – fifteen seconds, and then twenty, and then nearly thirty, as the last handful of minutes of his corporeal life slid by. Aziraphale found themself holding their own breath as they waited for each shuddery inhale, exhaling in tandem and relief. He didn’t seem to even see Aziraphale there, anymore. Not trying to speak. Eyes unseeing, and tears trailing into his long, blood-red hair.

Aziraphale felt themself shaking and blinking rapidly. It was… _wrong_. No one should look like this. _No one_ should, and yet, they’d seen so many humans this way, losing life to pointlessness. To violence, to pain, to an end they could not understand as part of God’s Plan. It had to be, of course it did, but…it wasn’t right _._ Crawly should not look like this, suffer like this. Their eyes should be teasing and confusing, their mouth forming questions and dares that didn’t make sense, limbs that could never stay still. Confusing and erratic and insufferable and, and–

It was wrong, in every way, that Aziraphale _cared._ A decent angel would be _overjoyed_. Not at suffering, of course; no angel truly wished suffering upon anyone. But…demons were different. Demons were _supposed_ to suffer, weren’t they? Wasn’t that the point of their Fall? An eternal punishment?

Without conscious thought, Aziraphale reached forward and lightly touched the centre of the oozing wound. Crawly made a high sound, a whine of pain, and Aziraphale felt something scar deep in their heart. It was a terrible sound to hear, and one they’d unfortunately heard before. Many times, much like the death rattle that had consumed their senses for the past few minutes. And it _always_ scarred them to witness, but not like this. Not in a way that told Aziraphale that, should they ever wish to try sleeping, this is what they would hear in their nightmares.

“Shh,” Aziraphale hushed, doubtful Crawly could even hear them. “I’m…I’m going to try to heal you, okay?” The demon made no reply, and Aziraphale forced their gaze from that hollow face to the wound, still gushing blood in a steady, small stream, edges clotting, but not enough to matter. It was like it was determined to leave Crawly empty and void of anything like life.

Aziraphale felt slightly hysterical, unsure what they were doing or thinking. An angel, healing a demon? It was unprecedented. It might not even work, and an angelic miracle might even run the risk of damaging a demonic corporation. Aziraphale might simply send Crawly Below sooner if they tried.

And, above all, it was wrong.

_It was wrong._

But not doing so, in that moment, was unthinkable.

Aziraphale tugged at the ready thread of their Grace and began to will the demon away from an edge they could not follow.

#

A soft murmuring clustered close to Crawly’s ears, and it sounded like fretting. He couldn’t make out any distinct words, everything sounding vaguely of cotton fluff, but something was trying to reach him, and he willed it to make any amount of sense. Slowly, feelings returned to him one at a time. His fingers were cold, he was lying on something hard, and his skin prickled with dryness. That was important, wasn’t it? Because…because he hadn’t been. There’d been…he’d been lying in something…a stickiness…

Ah. Right. The blood. He’d discorporated, then.

But he hadn’t. He knew this instinctively, as obvious as the ability to see when one’s eyes are open and the world is in view. Crawly was on Earth. Not just because of the smells of fresh air and pollen, the slight breeze, the sensation of dirt against his heels. It was simply undeniable. This was Earth. So…Crawly didn’t discorporate? What happened?

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes to see endless stars.

He supposed it must have been cloudy, earlier, or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention, or maybe it hadn’t yet been night, because he had no memory of seeing stars as he had bled out in the dirt. Yet, now they were there, endless darkness and eternal dots of rebellious light, burning out but never fading to black. Colourful and loud even in death.

“C-Crawly?” came a tentative voice. Aziraphale. They were still here?

Crawly, slowly sat up, a hand automatically shifting to his stomach, just to the side, where the knife had entered and twisted. An ache lingered there, but it was a phantom pain, an echo of what the logical part of his brain knew was supposed to be there. But the flesh was smooth under the robe, untorn as the fabric. Not a drop of blood in sight.

Nearly trembling with relief, but drowning in confusion, Crawly turned wild eyes on the angel, who sat primly beside him. Aziraphale’s body faced away, but their head was tilted enough to bely that the angel had been watching. Waiting for him to awaken. They looked nervous, but then, Aziraphale always looked nervous around him.

“Angel,” Crawly said. They were surprised by how dry their throat was. “What’s going on? Why’s the…y’know…big hole in my stomach gone?”

Aziraphale glanced at him, and for a moment, there was eye contact, and something in Crawly’s blood seemed to physically react. A spreading of warmth, familiarity. Or maybe it wasn’t physical at all, and was merely the way Crawly swayed toward them unevenly, as if prepared to move according to the wind in Aziraphale’s palms.

The angel gave a small smile. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Crawly’s hand flexed against his stomach, like the wound might resurface if he pressed a little harder. “But I…”

“How did you get stabbed to begin with, Crawly?” Aziraphale interrupted, not unkindly, but rather firmly. “Couldn’t you have darted out of the way or something?”

Crawly didn’t want to have to get into the whole convoluted mess of it, and settled on saying, “Got mixed up in something I shouldn’t have, heard some things that certain humans would rather I didn’t know.” He hadn’t sent the assassin to see his Maker, as soon as Crawly understood what had happened. No…his Maker steered right clear of the place that one went.

Aziraphale made a pinched expression before turning their face away. “Just to keep you quiet, then?”

“Basically.”

“…You ought to be more careful about with whom you associate.”

“I’m a demon. Working with the ilk and scum and rich is part of the job description.” He didn’t add that this extended to his supervisors. “Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question. Can’t imagine it just vanished. What’d you do?”

Aziraphale swallowed visibly, cast in shadows and dappled starlight. “I won’t do it again,” they said quietly. “This was one time, Crawly.”

Comprehension dawned – slowly, then all at once, his brain too addled to make the appropriate connections as he should’ve the moment he awoke. “You-“

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay.” Crawly hesitated, but curiosity had long been his downfall. “Why?”

Aziraphale shook their head and stood, dusting off their robes as if they’d done nothing more significant than pick a wildflower. They didn’t pretend not to know what part Crawly meant when they replied, “As an Angel of the Lord, I would be remiss not to use my powers for good when the opportunity presents itself.”

Crawly had the sensation that this little speech was practiced and intentional. Had he not been so shocked, he might’ve thought to push further, but as it was, he couldn’t get past the bare fact that Aziraphale had _healed him._

It was merely discorporation. Not dying, nothing more permanent than a reassignment. It wasn’t anything Crawly _wanted_ to go through, but ultimately, it wasn’t a huge deal. Nothing…damning.

But. An angel. An angel had _saved_ him. Willingly.

An angel, who had protected him from the rain, who had given away his sword, who had perhaps, all along, said all the wrong things. Crawly had the sense that Aziraphale spoke with their actions, more than their mouth, and they had just healed him. Aziraphale had touched his wound and stitched together the ligaments and tender skin, despite… _everything._

Aziraphale was saying something very loud, and Crawly tried carefully to listen.

“It wouldn’t do for an angel to let anyone suffer,” they added in a small voice, as though they were afraid someone might overhear. Crawly thought of floods, and an anguished, angelic face, and understood why.

And he understood why this would never be spoken of again. Not that there was much to say – or perhaps too much, far too much to say.

Crawly stood, stretching his limbs with a grunt. Something awkward tinged the air, like admitting to a vulnerability and having to face that it couldn’t be taken back. It should have been Crawly who felt vulnerable, but he got the distinct impression that Aziraphale felt just as exposed by their actions, if not moreso.

“Right, well.” Demons didn’t thank people. “Good of you, and all.”

Aziraphale huffed, an expression of at least seven emotions, most of which Crawly couldn’t place. “Of course, it is. I’m an angel, Crawly.”

“Pretty hard to forget.” Crawly stood beside them a moment, gazing at the stars. “Right. Well,” he said again, having no clue what the right words were. There probably weren’t any.

Aziraphale shifted beside them, and Crawly tensed instinctively, then relaxed. He had nothing to be afraid of, least of all Aziraphale. There was nowhere safer than by the side of this strange, strange angel, he couldn’t help thinking. He was safe there. _Gosh._ When was the last time he’d felt safe next to anyone…except for the last time Aziraphale made him feel this way?

They’d have to part ways in a moment. Who knew how long it would be until they saw each other again? Possibly even longer than usual, as Crawly suspected Aziraphale was going to avoid him for a bit, until they could stuff aside whatever worries were making them fret impressively.

But they _would_ see each other again, and it would be the same as always…and a little different.


	2. four thousand years

The taste of oysters was burned onto Aziraphale’s tongue for weeks afterward. They ate and drank other things, always one to enjoy human delicacies, but still it remained, a constant aftertaste. Perhaps there was some trouble with their corporation or taste buds, or maybe, possibly, it was their desire to linger in that moment, with the company, much more than the flavour. But that was terribly unlikely.

After four thousand years on Earth, Aziraphale had settled firmly into a set of routines and habits that suited them well. They had grown terribly fond of the place, of its food and wine and clothing and, oh Lord, the writings! Was there anything more divine? Well, perhaps not _divine,_ exactly, but…regardless. They had been tracking the humans’ progress on that front, perhaps encouraging them with a nudge here and there. China, Egypt, Mesopotamia. The humans recorded histories, statistics, and – their favourite of all – stories, mythos, and things more often found in spoken tales. But Aziraphale liked reading them the best.

Rome was a fascinating empire to witness, and Aziraphale had settled there under the insistence by Head Office that there were important events in store there for Aziraphale to bear witness to. For once, the angel had no complaints about the assignment. Prospects seemed bright.

Running into Craw – Crowley, that is, a month or so prior, had been a most accidental surprise. They still weren’t used to the name change; know someone well enough, and think about someone often enough, for thousands of years under one name, and certain habits tended to become quite ingrained. But it was clear the new name made Crowley much happier, and Aziraphale was more than content to respect that.

N-Not that they respected a _demon,_ that is to say. But surely, there was no need to go hurting feelings for no good reason. Or bad reason. Or any reason at all.

The point was, their encounter with the demon had been surprisingly…nice. Crowley might object to their word choice, but it was. They’d eaten a meal together, shared a few drinks, parted ways amicably. Crowley told a ridiculous story about his time in the Andes and seemed to glow when Aziraphale laughed uproariously at his stunts.

Something about it all _frightened_ Aziraphale very much, but ever since certain events done some time in the past under particular circumstances, Aziraphale had decided that some… _allowances_ must be made, if an angel felt their heart go out to a demon. Angels were naturally compassionate, which was surely why Aziraphale felt so drawn to this downtrodden creature.

Aziraphale was distracted from this as they walked leisurely through the streets of Rome. Evening was beginning to fall, and people milled about, women and men and slaves. A handful of children darted between their legs, up to good-natured mischief. One ran into Aziraphale before bounding around them without so much as an apology, and Aziraphale could only chuckle.

Though it was relatively peaceful at the moment, Aziraphale sensed a tension brewing nearby, as much a sixth sense of the human body as an angelic attunement to discontent and ill intentions. Aziraphale had no orders to intervene in any street fights, but it was their angelic duty to ensure the safety of the people, naturally, so they made their way toward the market, where carts and stalls of local and foreign goodies alike were being sold by a host of citizen traders.

In the middle of the crowd came the voices of heated debate, the speech rapid and without context. There could be no saying what had started it, and as with these sorts of things, no doubt there would be many versions spinning around the gossip wheel within hours.

Aziraphale stepped forward, intentionally cloaking their aura so they could make their way between the instigators’ argument. They had done this many times, using their angelic presence to soothe nearby souls and ease away the tensions. Even if they didn’t stop the fight from starting, they could encourage it to wrap up more quickly, with fewer injuries or bystander victims of pointless violence. Rather routine, really.

They were about to unmask their presence and reveal themself when one of the men threw the first punch and, not realizing Aziraphale stood directly between the two, made contact with the side of their head, sending them off-balance.

Aziraphale had a fleeting thought about having to clean their toga later when their head smacked into the cobbled ground with a horrific thud, and the world went terrifyingly black.

#

Crowley had been attracted to the brawl in the street like a lamb to slaughter. By technicality, supposed to be there, but not actually that interested, and probably would regret showing up at all when they learned what was to be experienced there. And maybe that metaphor didn’t make any sense. Not the point.

It was brief, no more than some thrown punches between the errant pedestrians. Some tried to stop them, others joined in, and most either observed or scurried away from the action, seeking out their children in the crowded market and preparing to protect their goods if the fighting wound closer.

Crowley crossed his arms and walked directly into the crowd and the brawl, miraculously unnoticed. Humans were so foolish sometimes. He wasn’t even sure what this fight had started over, but it was definitely something stupid. True to his nature, Crowley gave in to the impulse to trip a couple of the fighters. One even fell into an opponent’s arms, only to realize they recognized each other from that orgy the other week. Crowley grinned slyly. Humans never stopped being entertaining.

Still, best not to let it go on for too long, before the consequences fell to the slaves and women (practically another brand of slave) or someone died from it. A few well-placed punches left the worst of the bunch unable to continue, and some good-hearted Samaritans intervened and broke apart the remainder of the impromptu mob.

Crowley watched over his tiny spectacles as the mass dispersed. He could feel the Wrath and wounded Pride and even Envy and Lust radiating from the dissolving crowd. This tiny battle would have long-lasting ripples of sin over the following weeks, and Crowley decided he may as well take credit for it in his next report, despite his bare-minimum involvement. He’d done far less when taking credit for far more, after all–

Wait, shit. Someone was still lying on the ground over there, flat out on their stomach.

Everyone around the market ignored the person, which was a bit strange. Shouldn’t someone be checking them, seeing if they were okay? Humans could be so inconsiderate, to cruelly ignore someone who was clearly hurt. Crowley strode closer to see for himself (not because _he_ was any _more_ considerate, of course, just idle curiosity, of _course)_ and nearly choked at the sight.

That was the angel. _His_ angel. Aziraphale.

Now that he was aware of it, the ethereal energy was obvious, if muted. A don’t-look-at-me miracle cloaked their person, the sort that only worked for humans and most animals (not much gets by cats), but that was definitely them, lying prone on the cobbled street.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said, aiming for flippant but mostly coming off as jittery. He pressed the toes of his sandals against Aziraphale’s side to get their attention. “What the fuck are you doing on the ground?”

When no answer was forthcoming, Crowley went from nervous to slightly panicked. He’d never seen the angel like this. They were always uppity, _virtue is ever vigilant_ and such, looking around the world with equal contempt and delight. Looking surprised and pleased when Crowley appeared before forcing some bitchy expression that Crowley found oddly endearing.

Crowley squatted beside them. Hesitantly, he reached out and tilted the angel’s chin to see their face, revealing the massive wound on their forehead.

It was…it was grotesque. All red, scraped flesh and black around the edges, bloody and dappled with sediment from being pressed into the ground. Streaks of red ran down the side of their face, and the whole thing was swollen purple from the impact.

Crowley had seen enough over his four thousand years to know a fatal head wound when he saw it.

How had this happened? Crowley tried not to panic, but a horrible squeezing threatened to burst his heart as he listened to the angel’s shallow breaths. The brawl was such a small thing. What had the angel gone and done to get so banged up? It made Crowley feel like vomiting, to see them like this. He ought to be used to the blood and beatings, after what he’d witnessed in Hell, in the torture chambers and the Pits, and even here on Earth with the inventive punishments of humans.

But he wasn’t.

Whenever Crowley sat idle, or lay to sleep, he had a habit of running his fingers over the skin on the left of his stomach. He knew the outline of the space viscerally. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he could tell which flesh was infernal, and which was at least ethereal-adjacent, but it was still an obsessive thing, to trace the thin stretch of space that shouldn’t have been there. That should have been his corporeal end but wasn’t.

His hand flew there now, as he watched the angel’s slack face, the wound oozing shiny blood.

Aziraphale could have healed this in a heartbeat. Probably wouldn’t even take any effort, any thought at all, to clear themself up and move on with a mere grumble of inconvenience. Aziraphale was perfectly capable of healing themself, of course, being an angel.

However, the blow to the head had rendered the angel unconscious, clearly too quick to react to it. They wouldn’t be able to heal it until they woke up.

_If…_

Crowley considered lying to himself about how he felt about the angel discorporating, feigning indifference to an audience of zero. But honestly, he really, really liked this angel and had no interest in watching them slowly discorporate on this Roman street. Or anywhere. It wasn’t even about Aziraphale being sent back to Heaven for a brief time – he just truly didn’t want to have to witness that. This sight would already haunt him.

Crowley snapped, hoping the displacement wouldn’t make things worse, and they appeared in the room of an inn, Aziraphale lain on the soft mat and Crowley kneeling beside them.

He needed to wake the angel up.

“Hey, Aziraphale, wake up!” he shouted. When they didn’t react, he shouted it significantly louder, loud enough for surrounding humans to hear had he allowed them. “Wake up, you stupid idiot!” He jostled Aziraphale’s shoulder lightly. Eyeing the growing stain on the mat below the angel’s head, he stopped that. He didn’t know how to go about waking other people, other than a lot of noise, and that wasn’t helping. He could theoretically splash them with cold water, but he didn’t want to risk doing anything that might worsen the wound.

“Nothing for it,” he mumbled, and snapped his fingers, suggesting to the chemicals in Aziraphale’s brain that they should do the thing where they woke them up. Banish the adenosine, coax out the cortisol. However, he was met immediately with interference, and realized that whatever neurotransmitters that head injury had jostled in there could not be rerouted without…healing.

Crowley stiffened. Was there really nothing he could do, then? He was a demon, so he couldn’t heal, and he couldn’t think of anything he could do to wake Aziraphale from their unconscious state. There were human methods of patching the injury, sure, and Crowley was well-versed in the matter after thousands of years of frustration over his lack of healing abilities. He’d never wanted to be caught out without recourse and studied methods from across the world, learning from witches and scholars and run-of-the-mill townsfolk. Still, he was no fool. He knew a lost cause when he saw it.

A sense of hopelessness stole over Crowley as he had rarely felt. Laying a hand gently on Aziraphale’s arm, feeling the warm skin and plump flesh against his palm and fingers, he watched, knowing Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have much time left. And Crowley sat there, unable to do a thing. Utterly fucking useless.

He tried to remind himself that discorporation wasn’t so bad. Just a body. Aziraphale was probably in some darkened unconsciousness, which he understood felt a lot like sleeping. He didn’t think Aziraphale slept, so it was probably quite confusing for them. In a minute or two, they’d appear in Heaven, and go about doing whatever angels did when they got discorporated. Filling out reports and jumping through the legal rounds to get the new body assigned, if it was anything like Hell. Waiting for ages, only to hear that one letter was off on page 439 and they’d have to refile it all before it got approved. Crowley had managed to avoid getting discorporated, somehow, after so long stationed on Earth. He’d heard enough demons grousing about it, though, to know it wasn’t a pleasant process – but it was more boring and tedious than anything.

Crowley thought all this, and watched that patch of red get bigger, and darker, and heard Aziraphale’s shaky breaths, the rising and falling of their chest weakening. A guardian, _frail._

Crowley was surprised to realize his eyes were filling with tears, and he banished them, only for them to return and hover along the lower edge of his eyelid, daring to drip at the slightest motion. He stared at the angel, confused, scared, displaced.

Just discorporation. Just a body. Not. A big. Deal.

Nevermind how many times Crowley had watched humans die this way.

Nevermind the children he’d watched die.

Nevermind the animals, the women in childbirth, the soldiers and comrades and friends.

Nevermind all that. The fact was plain and simple that it ached to watch someone suffer when he cared about them, and he cared about this angel so goddamn much that he couldn’t hope to make sense of it.

He was a demon, and they were an angel. All bets were off in that moment, and Crowley decided suddenly that he wasn’t letting this happen. Whatever the consequences may be, an angel and a demon weren’t that different. They weren’t. God had taken his white wings and his Grace, She had taken his eyes and made them something else, She had taken his joy and creativity and denied him Love and Forgiveness.

She could not take Aziraphale, not even for a second.

Crowley gingerly laid his hand over Aziraphale’s bleeding wound, and told it firmly, very firmly, that regardless of what the universe had told him, the wound did not exist, and Aziraphale’s forehead and body were perfectly healthy, and they were _not_ dying. Not under Crowley’s watch. He commanded it to listen to him, and then he softened and told Aziraphale that they were alright, and they would awake and be okay, and all the blood was going to clean itself while Crowley was at it. Aziraphale was fine. He believed the thought into the world.

Sweat dripped down Crowley’s brow as he watched the skin weave itself together.

#

Having never awoken before, Aziraphale decided immediately that they didn’t like it one bit. They didn’t know where they were, or who was around them, or what they’d been doing, and everything felt distinctly wrong when they didn’t know these things. Virtue was ever vigilant, and an angel should always have a firm bearing on their surroundings.

Before Aziraphale even opened their eyes, they were attuned in a wash of colour to everything in their proximity. A chill over their face, a thick blanket with a comforting weight, an infernal warmth emanating from a body at their side. Crowley’s distinctive presence brought the angel to full wakefulness, and they allowed their eyes to open.

The room was dark, but a small light cast tiny, flickering shadows across the ceiling. Likely a candle. Aziraphale grunted and sat up, slightly dazed, feeling like they’d missed something important. They definitely didn’t like waking up, though they couldn’t recall much about sleeping.

“Angel,” came that voice, and Aziraphale looked over to see Crowley gazing back, by all appearances having been staring for some time. The silly little device on his face was gone, replaced with an expression of concern and relief, only the edges of him revealed by the singular weak candle. “How are you feeling?” he asked, low and gentle.

Aziraphale considered that, blinking. They felt remarkable, actually, like all the daily pains they hadn’t realized were there had vanished. Lower back pain, an ache in the heels and ankles, eye strain. “I feel…fine,” they replied, running a hand over their front, splaying the palm over the blanket. “What happened?” they asked. A rush of anxiety poured through them. “Why am I here? Why are _you_ here?”

“Got hurt pretty bad, angel,” Crowley replied. “Hit your head or something. I brought you here to recover.”

Aziraphale’s hand flew to their scalp, running through their curls in search of the injury. They found nothing. “Whatever are you on about? I have no such wound.”

Crowley smirked, though it looked strained. “Not anymore. Consider it repayment. Demons don’t like debts, you know.”

This didn’t compute with anything in Aziraphale’s mind, and they shook their head. “I-I think I remember…that’s right, there was a fight, wasn’t there?”

“Mmm hmm. Not very angelic of you to brawl in the streets, angel. I’m shocked at you.”

Aziraphale made an affronted noise, glowering at the insufferable creature. “I was not _fighting_ in it, Crowley! I was trying to _stop_ it. Oh, knowing you, you probably started it all, didn’t you?”

The demon shook his head, lifting an eyebrow as though the accusation was the most unreasonable thing he’d ever heard. “My hands are clean. In this instance.”

Aziraphale glared for a moment, but let it go. Brawls weren’t the demon’s style. They still felt miffed though, simply by virtue of their confusion. They hated feeling slow – it reminded them of how the Archangels often made them feel…accidentally, of course. “What is this nonsense about a debt, then?” they pressed.

“You’re clever, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, expression shifting to a scowl. “Surely you can – listen, it’s not important. I’m just gonna go, alright? I didn’t want you to wake up al – I just wanted to tell you what’s up and I’ll get outta here.”

He stood, but Aziraphale took hold of his wrist to stop him, half off the bed. “Crowley. Explain yourself.”

Crowley didn’t look back at them for a beat, before turning his yellow snake eyes on them, an indecipherable emotion brimming in them. He swallowed and forced a half-smile. “Demons _can_ heal, apparently,” he said.

Aziraphale blinked. “No, they can’t. You said as much yourself.”

“Well, I was wrong. And I’m never wrong, so you know it’s true if I’m-“

“Would you stop being so cryptic, Crowley?” Aziraphale interrupted, frowning up at him. “I don’t understand why you’re acting like this!”

Crowley gave a great sigh, closing his eyes and speaking through clenched teeth. “Demons can heal,” he repeated slowly, “and you didn’t discorporate. I’m not gonna say it.”

“Are…you suggesting…that you…?”

“Yes.” Crowley tore his arm away and crossed them, entire body guarded.

Aziraphale didn’t know how to make sense of it. Crowley had _healed_ them? How? Why? Too much was happening at once. It was one thing for Aziraphale, an angel of the Lord, to heal someone. It was their duty, after all, to protect – even if that someone was a demon, probably. They’d had thousands of years to come up with excuses for their behaviour that night, and all of them revolved around their existence and purpose on this planet to be based on the soothing and betterment of their surrounding creatures. It was their job, their duty, and their pleasure.

But they’d learned that night that demons could not heal. It was beyond their abilities, their reach, and Aziraphale had accepted that knowledge as logical, built it into the structures in their mind of how things worked. Angels healed; demons destroyed. Angels cared; demons…did not.

Two realizations came to them at once. The first was that, apparently, according to this declaration, demons could, in fact, heal, and Crowley had been incorrect all those years ago. Be it as a trick, a lie, or an accident, it couldn’t be said. The second was that Crowley, with his ability to heal, had used it on them, an _angel._ When Aziraphale had foolishly damaged their corporation, and been slated for discorporation, Crowley had swept in and _healed them._ A demon had healed an angel. For no reason _at all._

There were…possibly several reasons. None of them could possibly be pertinent, or possible. But Crowley still gazed at them, imploring them to understand something entirely unsaid, and Aziraphale…did.

Angels didn’t thank demons. But demons didn’t heal angels, did they? Nonetheless. “Crowley…I…that was very…” _good of you_ , they wanted to say, but couldn’t bring themself to.

Crowley’s eyes flared, receiving the sentiment if not the words. He straightened out his black toga, pulled out those little pieces of glass on wire, and perched them on his nose. “Pure selfishness, my angel. Can you imagine how bored I’d get if I didn’t have you to bother?”

Aziraphale willed away the heat in their face at the possessive pronoun. They didn’t have it in them to tease; their mind was going off in too many directions. “How did you discover demons could heal?” they asked instead.

Crowley shrugged, though a tension betrayed him. “Y’know. Pick things up here and there. Probably just propaganda to begin with. You know how demons are. We gotta keep up our image, so don’t go telling anyone.”

“Of course.”

Crowley refused to stay much longer after that, looking altogether too jumpy to sit still. Aziraphale felt a strange surge of calm in the face of the demon’s anxiety; it felt rather like a role reversal, but one that couldn’t last.

Memories and thoughts and worries and feelings batted for Aziraphale’s attention, generating a numbing cacophony in the back of their mind. There was too much to think about, and too much to sort, over this brief interaction. They had always tried not to look too closely at their time with Crowley, for fear of what they might see there, but the pull was as irresistible as the demon was himself. They firmly told themself that there was nothing to read into anything, and that this didn’t change anything.

It might be a while before they saw each other again, or only a few days (it varied so wildly with this erratic demon of theirs). But they _would_ see each other again, Aziraphale thought. Surely, they would, if history was anything to go by. However, they feared that there had been a…shift, and somehow, things were even more complicated than Aziraphale had realized they could be.

No doubt, it would be the same as it had always been…but, perhaps, it might be a little different, too.


	3. six thousand years

After the failure of the Earth’s destruction and the War that was Not to Be, life happened slowly.

Even if it was not strictly accurate, Crowley and Aziraphale both felt as though they had been on the run for well over a decade, working to accomplish the impossible, and actually _accomplishing_ it (with help) turned out to be a perplexing ordeal. Even Crowley, as imaginative as he was, could barely comprehend what to do with the time and thoughts he was left with.

He did the only logical thing, first, which was to sleep until the next year. This lasted all of three weeks because Aziraphale got peckish and invited themself in and threatened to commandeer Crowley’s Bentley if he didn’t get up right this moment, dear – smiling innocently all the while.

Crowley decided he could do without the back pain of a four- or five-month nap, anyway.

Time ambled and sauntered without destination. Eternity had never seemed so big and endless without the constant interruption of work assignments and check-ins and demonic PowerPoint presentations on the beneficial demerits of shortening charging cords. Crowley didn’t know what to do with himself, so he decided the best course of action was to go bother Aziraphale. Hang around, be a pain in the arse until he got kicked out.

After a handful of months this way, Crowley tentatively reached the conclusion that, perhaps, Aziraphale wasn’t going to. Crowley left of his own accord most nights and some days, but time began to slow even further until the hours were filled with sharing meals and drinks, arguing over books and films, and dragging each other to art museums and vintage car shows. Fearless, for the most part, or learning their way there.

It shouldn’t have been this easy. There had to be a trick, somewhere. They had talked about those days, the ones that brought all this on, but nothing else. Six thousand years of interactions they still largely did not discuss, of building feelings and trust they staunchly ignored, and after flipping off Up and Down and probably the cardinal directions for good measure, could it be so simple to bicker themselves into domesticity?

“Dear, stop being a couch pastry and cut the celery, would you?” Aziraphale called, snapping Crowley to attention from his sprawl across the sofa. Aziraphale had been bustling about in the little kitchen while Crowley dozed.

Crowley grunted and sat up halfway, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t sure where his sunglasses had gotten to. “A what?”

“The celery!”

“No, no, what did you call me?”

“Couch pastry, Crowley. It’s a phrase, a very common one, in fact-“

“Do you mean a couch _potato?”_

There was a long pause. “I’m sure there’s been plenty of potential for etymological drift,” they eventually replied in a huffy tone. “Are you coming to help, or not?”

Crowley stood with a slight sway and made his way over to the kitchen. It wasn’t until he saw Aziraphale in an apron (tartan, naturally), standing with a pot over the stove and various cooking implements and ingredients cluttering the tiny counter, that he processed what he’d been tasked with. “You _cook,_ angel?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Thought you gave that up, oh, around the time of the Venetian Republic?”

Aziraphale pursed their lips, pushed aside a package of some lumpy bits, and took up a wooden spoon. “Well, I had to do _something_ with all that time during the 19th century, didn’t I? Not needing to travel anymore, and all. After getting the bookshop, and with our Arrangement, I really wasn’t too busy to pick up new – or rather, old – hobbies.”

“How come I didn’t know about it?” That came out much more like a whine than intended.

“You were asleep, my dear.”

“And after that?”

Aziraphale glanced at him, a pinch between their eyebrows. “You know what came after,” they answered quietly.

Crowley conceded that with a grunt, hovering closer to watch Aziraphale stir whatever concoction of creams they were warming over the gas stove. “What’s this, then?”

“Gnocchi soup. I expect you to eat it properly, though.”

Crowley grinned, cocking a hip against the counter and crossing his arms. “ _What_ , does it make you _uncomfortable_ to watch a _snake_ swallow egg-shaped potato thingies _whole?”_

Aziraphale sniffed. “You’re not snake-shaped now, serpent. Cut the celery.”

To the shock of anyone who didn’t know him better, Crowley complied without a word.

He finished the celery and white onion and began the process of smashing the garlic cloves with the flat side of the knife (he’d seen someone do it in one of those online cooking videos) when his hand slipped, and he accidentally cut a broad stripe along the underside of his fingers. A shallow cut. “Shit,” he mumbled, already lifting the other hand to heal it. Suddenly, his arm was snatched up, and he turned to see Aziraphale staring at the growing beads of blood with a wide-eyed, frozen expression.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s grip tightened, and they gently swiped a finger over the cuts, healing them over with a thought, blood clearing and leaving healthy, pink skin. Hardly an effort, but their mouth was set in a grim, tight line. “You need to be more careful,” they demanded.

Crowley watched them for a long moment, a mix of emotions permeating the air and mixing with the garlic. “It’s just a little cut, Aziraphale,” he said teasingly, but something tightened in his throat at the way Aziraphale continued to cradle his hand with both of theirs. “I’m fine, really.”

Aziraphale gave a jerky nod. “Of course, you are,” they agreed.

“I’ll just…finish the chopping, then?”

Aziraphale shook their head. “I can take care of it.”

“Don’t be silly, angel. I don’t mind hel – I can do it.”

With a sense of dread, Crowley watched Aziraphale’s eyes drift over to the knife and cutting board, the bits of smashed, flaking garlic cloves. Their eyes moved without pause to Crowley’s stomach. “I think I’ve got it covered, actually,” Aziraphale said, attempting to cover the strain in their voice with a smile. “Why don’t you go back to your nap?”

Crowley didn’t know what to say. He could say it had been Aziraphale’s idea to help in the first place, but that wouldn’t get them anywhere. He didn’t know how to reassure them that he was fine, now; that he was safe. That it had been _four thousand years_ and knives didn’t bother him. He didn’t know how to explain it in a way that would make any sense, because clearly, it bothered Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t know what to say to that.

They carried on. The gnocchi soup tasted delicious. Crowley chewed it properly (for the most part).

#

To Aziraphale’s annoyance, Crowley tried to broach the topic of Aziraphale’s… _moment_ …that evening, as they each knocked back a few fingers of whiskey. “So,” he said, stretching out the syllable far beyond its maximum capacity, “what was that about, then?”

They didn’t tend to talk about these things. Those were moments that, in the past, they would have let go, and moved on from without comment, much like, well, the original event that Aziraphale had suddenly flashbacked to when they saw Crowley’s cut. They knew it was nothing big, but somehow, Crowley and knives…needed to not be next to each other, and they hadn’t even realized it until Crowley had gotten hurt from one. Again.

They didn’t want to think about it. They’d had thousands of years, and yet it all still felt so soon.

Aziraphale forced an innocent expression. “What do you mean?”

Crowley took a sip of his tumbler, not breaking eye contact with Aziraphale. Those yellow eyes, spiralling with amber and split with a pen’s stroke of black, bore through the angel’s barriers. “I’ve been healing myself for centuries, you know. Millennia,” he said.

“Indeed.”

“’S part of why you even agreed to the Arrangement. ‘Cause you knew I could handle the healing bits.”

“Quite.”

“But you healed my hand,” he persisted, one eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale glanced away. “I did.”

Crowley let out a frustrated huff. “And?”

“And what?”

“And _why?”_

Aziraphale bit their lip, not sure how they wanted to respond to that. It felt complicated. It had only been a matter of months since their freedom was guaranteed. Life sped by and hours spent with the demon took no time at all to get through. Eternity had never felt so far away when every moment raced too quickly to savour for more than a blink.

They loved that Crowley spent more time with them, lately, and were grateful for it. They felt it was undeserved, after all the hubbub of the prior summer…but Crowley seemed content by their side, and Aziraphale was not one to question things. Clearly.

As life became a whirlwind of activity, of the ins and outs of such a strange comfort with Crowley that Aziraphale had never dared to hope for (or dared to _admit_ they hoped for), Aziraphale did their best to revel in every instant. They wanted to take things slower than they were going, but they were not about to do anything to change the pace. Not now, after so much. Surely, they two deserved this peace, didn’t they? They’d spent so much time being afraid.

Aziraphale didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

They deflated a bit, shoulders sagging and posture not exactly slipping, but becoming less soldierly. “When you got cut, it reminded me of…that time, when you almost discorporated,” they admitted slowly. “All those years ago.”

Crowley nodded, as though he’d suspected as much. “I never did thank you for that.”

They smiled a bit. “No, we haven’t been much in the habit of thanking each other for things, have we?” Aziraphale felt now that they should have been thanking him for ages and eons. Sure, the angel saved him that one time, but how many times, over and over, had the demon repaid that favour? “But you don’t need to concern yourself over it, my dear,” Aziraphale hastened to say. “It was just a little thing, a moment of” – _weakness?_ – “indiscretion, and it shan’t happen again.”

“Angel…” Crowley made an aborted motion.

“Let it lie, would you?” Aziraphale pleaded, feeling unnecessarily worn, unsteady.

Crowley opened his mouth again, then closed it and nodded. He took in a deep breath, and, only a little forced, smirked and changed the subject.

In hindsight, Aziraphale blamed themself for what happened later.

The two chatted about this and that, bouncing between topics, rerouting themselves to old arguments and rehashing them with delight. They didn’t drink excessively, only enough to soften the edges, though still enough to kill a normal human body of alcohol poisoning. Both settled into this comfortable routine, as old as liquor itself, perhaps, and seemed to forget the tension that had twisted them up so much earlier on. This was Crowley, Aziraphale reminded themself. The one who knew them best and they knew best. There was no rush. They could both take all the time they needed to become accustomed to this new world. To steal the demon’s old phrase, they were _vaguely sauntering_ toward something new, but every step of it was exciting, even this limbo, this stasis of habits like phantom limbs and routine the firm foundation around rotting walls. They were going to be fine.

Then, without thinking at all, without knowing any reason why they should not, Aziraphale thought they’d improve the ambiance of the evening and stood to carefully light a couple of candles.

#

There had been no reason for Crowley to suspect something was off, or about to be. He knew Aziraphale enjoyed candles, enjoyed the lighting and fumes and general old-fashioned atmosphere of it all. It wasn’t uncommon for them to light a few during these evenings of drinking.

But that had been before…before…

When the lights were lit, they consumed all Crowley could see. The reaction of his body was instant, faster than his head. He burst from the sofa, all sharp edges, fangs bared and heart thundering as they jerked Aziraphale away from the fire. Sirens rang in his head, echoing. He reached out and snuffed the flames with his bare hands, curling palms over the ends of the wicks and tearing the heat away, eliminating the rapid oxidization of the two, tiny lights like the plucking of stars out of the sky.

The lamps continued to light the room, yet it felt so much darker as Crowley heaved for breath, lungs too tight, filled with imaginary smoke and hand clenching Aziraphale’s forearm so that the black fingernails dug into the flesh and fabric. Proof of physicality.

Aziraphale tentatively placed their hand over Crowley’s. “My dear, could you…”

Crowley drew back immediately, gaze swivelling from the candles to Aziraphale’s frame. Knowing his irises must’ve expanded, bleeding into white, he surveyed the angel up and down, over their body and their face, forehead, cheeks, wrists. Thoughts knotted through Crowley’s brain too quick to untie and examine. The jumble of strings only wound tighter and tighter as he began to shake, the hovering scent of fresh smoke like an intoxicant to his panic.

“What happened? What is it?” Aziraphale asked gently, so gently. They nodded to the desk without breaking eye contact. “The candles?”

Crowley couldn’t speak. He clenched his eyes shut, but all he saw was red and orange and black, so he opened them again to Aziraphale’s worried expression. He nodded.

For a moment, the angel looked unsure. Then something happened, some decision was made, a mental line was crossed, and they stepped closer until they were chest to chest, and they wrapped their arms around Crowley’s body.

If the demon hadn’t already been panicking, he certainly would’ve begun to, now. Instead, the warmth and heat surrounding him, the thick arms and round belly pressing into him, were more grounding than anything. He felt as though Aziraphale had taken his hand and pulled him from the edge of an unnamed darkness, that tar-black stickiness of despair that he’d spent too long drowning in long, long ago, before there had been any time but Before and After.

His breathing slowed, and he sucked in steady breaths that matched Aziraphale’s, the rigidity of his muscles slowly relaxing until the only reason he remained upright at all was the scaffolding his angel provided him. Eventually, sagging against them, Crowley drew his arms around Aziraphale, too, loosely. Aziraphale made a pleased hum, so Crowley left his hands there, on the angel’s back, light and shy.

Crowley let out one, long sigh. “Pathetic, right?” he grumbled, voice gravelly and low. “Going all… _that_ over a fucking _candle.”_

“No, it’s no-“

“Is this how you felt with the knife, earlier?” he interrupted. “Like…like everything was ending and there was nothing you could do about it?” He swallowed. “You’re stronger than me, if that’s the case.”

Aziraphale shook their head. “No, no…I’m not strong at all, see?” they murmured. Crowley pulled back to confirm what he’d heard – indeed, their face was streaked with tears, red rims framing blonde lashes. “I didn’t let myself feel the things I did when I should have. That’s not strength. You let yourself feel so much…but I don’t think I ever knew how afraid I was until earlier today.” They gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It only took me four thousand years to realize how scared I am of losing you.”

Crowley stared at them with big eyes, feeling flayed and broken. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “Or you wouldn’t have saved me, when I’m not sure you even liked me at all.”

Aziraphale shook their head again. “I didn’t _understand_ you. I always _liked_ you, but I didn’t understand. I’m not sure I understand _now.”_

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a conundrum, my dear,” they said, but it was fond as could be as they smiled, something fragile as an exhale in the cold. They pushed a short lock of hair out of Crowley’s face, and the motion was so tender, the demon thought he might evaporate on the spot. “Can you tell me? About the candles?”

Crowley abandoned the embrace to look around at the bookshop’s back room, cast in shadow and darkness, but whole. “This place burned down,” he said, curling into himself, aware of Aziraphale tracking his every movement. He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling small and all too seen. “I didn’t know why, at the time. Only knew about the candles when you told me about it all, after. But at the time, I thought you were dead.”

Aziraphale made a sound, but Crowley continued before they could interrupt.

“I know. Melodramatic as hell. But this was…the worst one.”

“The worst what?” Aziraphale asked when Crowley didn’t elaborate.

Crowley smiled mirthlessly. “I’ve seen you on the verge of death or discorporation more times than I care to count or remember. It’s the same for you, I know. But this was the worst. Even worse than in Rome.” He finally looked Aziraphale in the eye. “It…it hurts to think of that time, yeah, but it wasn’t as bad,” Crowley admitted carefully. “Seeing you bleeding out in front of me. There’s no way to explain how that feels-“

“And you don’t have to try,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded, averting his eyes again. “Right. But the fire was different. In Rome, I was able to save you. I still don’t know how, or why. I don’t know if other demons can heal, or if it’s just me, or if…my… _desperation_ , or whatever, was what made that possible. I don’t give a damn. But the bookshop fire…you _did_ discorporate. You did, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I…I didn’t save you that time.”

“Crowley, you…I didn’t…I should’ve…” Aziraphale clasped their hands together, as though it might keep them both from falling to bits. Their eyes shone with unshed tears, lip trembling, and they couldn’t seem to say what needed to be said.

Carefully, Crowley drew nearer again. The lines and boundaries had been swept away as easily as a branch’s stripe in the dust, met with the toe of a boot. This time, he held Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around his angel, knowing with complete and utter clarity that they were a creature more worthy than the love they’d received, and he could not pretend, anymore, that his too-human heart could stand withholding his own.

“What you said earlier…” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale clutched him back twice as tight, “You’re wrong, because you _are_ strong. You – you’re soft, and kind, and that’s _why._ The weak ones like me have to harden ourselves to the world, but you just go on, continuing to be soft and kind, no matter how much it hurts. You’re amazing, angel.”

“But I-“

“Nuh uh. No self-deprecating shit allowed. It is officially banned as of right now.”

Aziraphale gave a shaky chuckle. “Then you’re beholden to that, too. You’re not weak, Crowley. Having your emotions doesn’t make you weak.”

“Then neither does hiding them when you had to.”

A calm silence fell. Words had been said, and there didn’t seem much point in cluttering the oxygen with anything they both already knew. It reminded Crowley of the first time, the very first, as rain kissed the sands, and a path was forged by two on their own, brand new side – thrust into an unfamiliar landscape of uncertainty and flames. Rather than the distrust of that meeting, however, there settled a companionable comfort, something mutual and gooey and full of feelings.

Crowley rocked them back and forth lightly, almost like dancing, if angels were much for dancing. “We’re a fucking mess, huh?” he commented softly, cheek pressed to Aziraphale’s tickling curls.

“Language,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley burst out laughing. Trust his angel for consistency, he supposed gleefully as Aziraphale pressed their bodies impossibly closer. “Honestly,” Aziraphale continued, a smile evident in their voice, “I don’t mind if we have, as the kids say, ‘issues’; we’ll muddle on through together, won’t we? Like we’ve always done?”

Crowley, equal parts drained as high on endorphins, kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “’Course, angel.”

Aziraphale withdrew enough to frown at him, but the blush betrayed them, and Crowley made a mental note to make that happen as often as possible. “Sly serpent,” they replied, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down a rebellious grin. Crowley simply smiled.

Things were different in the new world they’d found themselves in. The guidelines kept changing, the stars kept burning out and coalescing. The vacancy of fear brought on a whole new host of questions for a demon to ask, and new rules for an angel to break. They were going somewhere together, and it didn’t matter where. They would protect each other, exactly as they’d always wanted to. And exactly as they always had.

So, perhaps it would be different from how it had always been, but the important part, the bit that mattered the most? That remained ineffably unchanged.

Hand in hand, they traversed the sands, cast out but not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your heart is still in need of some comfort after this, allow me to direct you to an older fic of mine, [The Years Belie (We Lived A Lie),](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662246) which covers a lot of soft healing post-Armageddon. It’s a bunch of fluff and emotional hurt/comfort and domesticity.  
> Thank you for reading. Feel free to shout at me in the comments. <3


End file.
